brooklyn, brooklyn take me in (are you aware the shape i'm in?)
by floweryfran
Summary: inspired by the avett brothers's "i and love and you," a one-shot of steve and bucky's softer, more domestic side while living in the tower. no one is absolved of the emotional effects of being a hero- not even indomitable supersoldiers.


20

Tonight was different.

Bucky was out of his bed before he had even processed what was happening, his sock-feet slipping across the hardwood floors in his haste, a tartan blanket trailing behind him from the place it was caught in the waistband of his sweatpants. Steve's screams echoed in the place between his ears, where he knew a brain should be, where he knew there was _something_ because he could _feel_ it; because it was _heavy_ and it _hurt_ like Steve's anguished voice _hurt_ and he needed to do something about it _now_. That is how he found himself standing in the doorway to Steve's bedroom in the pitch black of the night, heart thrumming wildly in his chest like the bass beat to one of Tony's rock songs, Steve's name rolling off of his tongue in a stream that tasted of honey and rum and the long cold nights that had them curled around each other for warmth in shuddering bomb bunkers, dust in their lungs and salt trails of tears carving rivers through the thick layers of grime and blood on their cheeks like baptism, like holy water, like being together was sacred even in those unholiest of places.

Three words on repeat in Bucky's mind- three words that had become hard to say- three that he could never speak again without the fear of his icy hand slipping out of Steve's and the paralyzing terror that comes with free-falling, tumbling through space and eventually time; without a nagging worry that the metal of his false arm will act of its own accord once again, forcing his body to gear up to deliver merciless, bone-shattering punches as his brain screams itself raw, _I knew him, I knew him, I knew him_; without the fear of his fingertips turning to dust in front of him, Steve's eyes muted to a colorless grey, shock freezing them both until the only word that Bucky still knows as his brain turns to ash is _Steve._ And isn't it the only word he has ever truly known? The only one that he can taste before he even says it, the one-syllable-song that his heart syncs to? The one that picks up synonyms like a magnet swept across a junkyard until _punk _and _kid_ and _buddy-_ and, later, _my life_ and _my home_ and _my savior-_ all mean _Steve, Steve, Steve_ too?

But when he saw his Steve- _his Steve, his his his_\- sat stick-straight up in his bed with his sheets pooling around his waist and a spine-chillingly empty look sagging on his face, those three poisoned words were all he could think.

Bucky took slow steps forward, thankful for the carpeted floor that muffled the dragging of his footfalls. This was different than normal. Most nights, Steve does not cry out like this. Most nights, Bucky- almost perpetually sleepless- would slip out of bed when he hears Steve's breathing come in whines and wheezes and cross the hallway to Steve's room with a heavy heart, hand on the doorknob but too afraid to turn it. There has yet to be a night when Bucky has been able to justify going into Steve's room to comfort him. It would feel wrong, like he was intruding on something deeply, horribly personal and seeing it would render Steve unable to meet his eyes ever again.

He was so, so afraid to hurt Steve.

It scared him more than anything else. So, he would lean his back against the closed door and slide down until he reached the floor, knees folded up against his chest and frantic tears burning his eyes, selfishly craving nothing more than to be curled around Steve in the same way that they used to huddle against the cold as weak walls shook from the explosion of bombs outside. But tonight was somehow, inexplicably different.

It was not something Bucky could touch. It was something in the silver moonlight coloring the room, turning it the eerie shades of ancient and cursed riches; something in the soft piano music coming from Natasha's room next door; something in the lingering smell of smoke from the fire Clint had spent the day stoking in the common area to warm the tower from its very heart; something in the atoms that built Bucky and built Steve and built the tower and the piano and the moon and the dirt and the trees and perhaps the stardust the universe was built from was singing that night, was quivering in its effort to remerge itself into the whole stars that everything came from, to reform the mother of the universe.

"Steve?" Bucky tried, this time the name- rather than a mindless, lilting whisper- tense with worry. Bucky feared that if he tried to speak again his very vocal cords would snap from the strain. He swallowed heartily, trying to choke down whatever blockage was forming in his throat, crossing to Steve's bedside. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed Steve's face, which was as slack as it had been the moment Bucky opened the door.

"Hey… F.R.I.D.A.Y.?" Bucky tried nervously.

"Good evening, Mr. Barnes," came the response in its typical cool tone. "How may I help you?"

"Can you check Steve's vitals? Something is wrong, he's-"

Bucky cut off when, without prompting, Steve's face drained of color and he began to whimper wordlessly under his breath. Sweat shone on Steve's forehead, and Bucky had a fleeting urge to swipe it away. Before Bucky could reground himself, Steve let out another low scream, one of pure and unadulterated horror, his eyes scrunching up against it. Bucky could hear it catching and grating against his throat and was sure Steve's voice would be gone in the morning.

"What's happening?" he snapped at F.R.I.D.A.Y., his anxiety making the words come out gruff and accusatory. He felt guilty immediately, but then again, she was not the one watching her- her _Steve_\- cry out into the night in unshakable terror.

Steve's hands were fisted in his sheets, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his gaze still unfocused and staring at some demon that Bucky could not see. Bucky's stomach churned and he began to fear he would be sick right there, right then at Steve's bedside, hopeless and helpless and nauseous at the sight of the perfect incarnation of strength and fearlessness crumbling before his eyes. It always hurt to see Steve in pain but this was _worse_ and Bucky wondered why it was so— but, then again, tonight was different.

Bucky reached out a trembling hand- the one made of flesh, of warmth- unsure of what exactly it was searching for but knowing that the yearning was his master and he was unable to fight it. For a moment he was awash in an icy fear: what type of power is so strong as to overthrow his logical mind as if by the flick of a switch, rendering him nearly immured to it?

_It is love_, some quiet voice whispered to him. _What you feel is love, to which we are all slaves. _

_Love_, Bucky repeated, his hand hanging in the air somewhere between him and Steve's rapidly convulsing chest, and it was as if a dam was shattered. The words began to fill him tip to toe like the waves that crash down from a torrent, and they were curious and sloppy in his mind but there was a warmth in them that Bucky had not felt since the snow enveloped him in its unforgiving and unyielding embrace.

_I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-_

"I do not recommend waking Mr. Rogers at this moment. Based on my evaluation, it seems he is experiencing a night terror," F.R.I.D.A.Y. stated, and Bucky realized that he had begun to pace, his footfalls heavy and clumsy in the otherwise stillness of the room.

"A night terror?" Bucky questioned breathlessly, returning to Steve's bedside. The concept was not familiar but not exactly foreign, either. Peter has had night terrors for as long as Bucky has been staying at the tower. Bucky unwittingly memorized the heartwrenching timbre of his tiny shouts of fear and has come to expect the soft rumble of Tony's footsteps as he crosses the hallway to talk the boy down, a steady stream of "Hey, Pete, it's okay, I'm here"s starting before he has even reached the door. The tower is never still, not even in the dead of night. One of the byproducts of their jobs would always be restlessness; they all knew it. "What do I do to help?" he finally asked the AI.

"There is nothing to be done. Mr. Rogers will not awaken quite yet. Besides, night terrors do not occur in REM sleep- the sleep phase in which normal dreams occur- and therefore he will not remember the terror once he wakes up. You can only wait it out until he exits the terror and reaches the REM sleep phase."

Bucky gave a shuddering sigh. "Okay. Okay. Okay. Thanks, F.R.I."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Barnes."

"That's alright, F.R.I."

Steve let out another blood-curdling shout, desperate and hoarse and rasping. Bucky felt tears forming in his eyes and let them fall unabashedly down his cheeks like saltwater streams. Panic weighed heavy on Bucky's heart when Steve did not revert to his slack-jawed expression. That, at least, Bucky was becoming accustomed to looking at (he had already packed it away in a filing drawer in his mind somewhere between Steve's sleepy smile and Steve's tight-jawed face of reckoning). But he was not prepared for the twist in his chest that came when Steve's back seemed to give out beneath him in one great jerk, his body falling to the sheets like a marionette whose strings had been snipped. There he lay, entire body trembling, his bitten lips forming silent pleas in an unhalting string.

Bucky thought idly that he might vomit. Images of amputated limbs and fires raging around him, of blue fingers coated in an armor of berry red blood— these were tolerable, even preferable, to Steve's body lying before him as he knelt at his bedside, every nerve of his body burning to feel Steve's skin on his and steady its quaking, to take whatever nightmares were playing behind his eyes and pull them out- even endure them himself rather than Steve, _anyone but Steve, who sacrifices everything for me time and time again but I can't even help him once_-

"Bucky, Bucky, no, not Bucky not Bucky not_ Bucky not Bucky_," Steve whimpered.

Too tangled in his own thoughts to comprehend the words- only present enough to realize that there had been words at all- Bucky whispered, "I'm here, Stevie, I'm here." The old nickname slipped out before Bucky could stop it. "It's… it's Bucky. I'm here. You're okay, I promise."

"_Not Bucky,_ take me, not him, please, not Bucky…" Steve was moaning, an icy fear unlike Bucky had ever heard from the other turning the words into silver daggers that found their place embedded in his chest. _He is dreaming of me_. _He might even be afraid of losing me, even despicable as I am now. _But then, _it's my fault he can't sleep_. A shock of shame wove its way through Bucky's veins, closing in around his chest like a fist until he felt sure he was having a heart attack, a true heart attack, and would collapse right there and then and Steve would awake in the morning and have to climb over his cold porcelain corpse to make his morning coffee.

"Are you sure I shouldn't wake him, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?" Bucky asked, his voice small.

"Let him awake on his own," the AI answered. "I have been conducting further research on the effects of night terrors in adults as my knowledge extends primarily to that of children's night terrors-" Bucky was finding it hard to listen to the AI's voice while Steve was laying there with his face knotted into a crinkle-eyed wince and his legs thrashing against the sheets for traction he would never find and Bucky's name pouring from his lips in a hardly intelligible prayer, _like a psalm_\- "may become violent while asleep. Unlike with children, it is probable that adults will wake up once the terror has run its course." F.R.I.D.A.Y. paused. "Mr. Barnes, he may awaken in a confused state, possibly forgetting who or where he is."

_Forgetting who or where he is_, Bucky repeated to himself. The words caused bile to rise in his throat and he soon found himself retching into the toilet of Steve's en-suite bathroom with little recollection of how he got there. He dry heaved, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and his heart fluttering like the furious wings of a bird caged between his ribs. The top of his head resting on the cold edge of the toilet, he forced breaths into his unwilling lungs.

"Pull yourself together, Bucky," he murmured to himself. "He's had nightmares before. _You've _had nightmares before. Why is this different?"

_Because tonight is different_, the small voice reminded him.

"If Steve forgets who he is, it's not like… like with the Winter Soldier. It's not like that. It's _not like that_," he repeated to himself, the words becoming stronger each time his lips shaped them. "You know it isn't like that. And you know how to help him better than anyone, so get in there and _do it_ instead of being a bunny," he said, determination back in his voice. He imagined his love- _love love love I love you_\- for Steve to be a warm, full red color and he used it to chase away the dusty grey that had been building up in him as if he were an empty wooden chest forgotten in an attic.

Bucky flicked on the faucet and swished a mouthful of water to rid himself of the acridness of the sick. He took another handful and splashed it over his face, allowing himself to feel cleansed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror for a moment- scowling at the pallor of his cheeks and the rough stubble he hadn't the energy to shave; at the water clinging to his lashes and dripping down into the bruise-like hollows under his eyes- before turning away.

A lungful of air. And another. And then a step. And another. And he walked back into Steve's room.

Bucky forced purpose into each stride. No point in being tentative anymore. Steve was laid on his side, one arm hanging loosely over the edge of his mattress and the other knotted into his sheets. His eyelids were just slightly opened, the blues of his eyes peeking out from under them. Bucky could hear Steve's breaths stumble in his chest.

And he ached.

Bucky fell back to his knees beside the bed as if he hadn't left. Pulling a sharp breath through his nose he let his hand fall to Steve's shoulder.

The cotton of Steve's shirt was thin beneath his fingers and he could feel his muscles twitching sharply, the panic in him reaching right down to the atomic level. It was almost as if every _Steve_ part of Steve had been wiped clean and a cast of him was left behind in its place— the same shape, yes, but without the fire in his eyes and the softness of his smile that turned Bucky's heart to mush and sent his knees knocking.

He wanted it back.

He wanted Steve's lips flicking up at the corners when he looked at him again— something that he had begun to do again since Bucky had returned from Wakanda but _something about it was different_. It was less carefree, less easy. Steve was older. He wanted _his_ Steve back, the one with pointy shoulders and pinkish spots on his cheekbones and a wheezy laugh; the one who yelled at boys on the street who looked too hard at dames while they walked; the one who sometimes needed help tying his tie right; the one who promised him things, promised him '_till the end of the line_, even when the line looped and twisted and did its damnedest to throw them off, never to find it again.

Bucky let his hand trail up from Steve's shoulder to brush against the column of his neck, following it to the sharp line of his jaw. A muscle jumped beneath Bucky's fingers and he quickly pulled away, color hot in his cheeks, feeling as if he had been caught doing something horribly wrong. A frown was blooming across Steve's face, his nose wrinkling and creases carving cliffs and valleys across his cheeks. Bucky rolled out of his squatted position and sat instead, leaning his cheek on the edge of the mattress near Steve's strewn arm.

"Hey, Stevie," he tried, his voice heavy with all of the things he was too afraid to say.

The words startled Steve out of the remnants of sleep. With a gasp, he grabbed at the sheets and pulled himself frantically into a ball in the center of the bed, his limbs flying out around him in his haste.

Bucky receded from the edge of the mattress, stumbling backwards until he found himself pressed against the far wall, apologies tumbling from his lips, "I'm sorry, it's just me. It's Bucky, I'm sorry, Steve, I didn't mean to frighten you."

Steve was pulling in hearty breaths where he lay. His face was turned toward Bucky, squinting at him in the darkness, all the way across the room. There was an ache in Steve's chest and between his eyes and he could feel his entire body shaking as if he had just lifted a mountain and his muscles were crying and he wasn't sure _why_ but he knew he _hurt_ and that the only real way to fix that had always been and would always be-

He held his hand out silently to Bucky. Bucky stared at it for a moment as if he didn't believe it was there, shock widening his eyes. Steve's hand stayed. He watched Bucky, who watched the hand as it shone like a beacon in the mellow light from the window, the room growing steadily more amber as day began to break.

Bucky watched Steve's hand tremble there and every ounce of reserve that his body had ever held came crashing down like rubble around him. He crossed the room in two strides, vision blurred by tears, and allowed Steve to pull him down onto the mattress beside him, each curled onto their side, staring intently into each other's eyes, knees knocking into each other's and noses bumping. Bucky wrapped his hands around Steve's biceps, clinging there, grounding himself. _Home home home_.

"Hey, Buck," Steve whispered, eyes probing into Bucky's.

Bucky could almost feel Steve shuffling through the cardboard boxes of thoughts meticulously stored away in Bucky's mind to find whatever it was that had sent him here— for what had changed that made him finally enter the room he had spent so many weeks sitting outside of.

Bucky felt a guilty relief in the fact that Steve awoke remembering him, unsure if he would have been able to handle the alternative. He felt a tear slip from his eye and down his cheek. He blinked hard and a few more followed it. He cleared his throat. "Hey, Brooklyn," were the words he eventually chose, his voice weak.

Steve swiped a thumb across Bucky's cheekbone, catching the wetness there. Neither spoke for a long moment. They simply looked at each other, savoring the warmth that came not so much from the physical sharing of their body heat but from each other's presence. For a moment, it was as if things made sense again. Steve feared that the resonant thud of bombshells hitting the earth and the high-pitched clinks of raining shrapnel would begin to sound around him. He could almost smell the smoke.

"You were screaming," Bucky muttered his explanation, his voice low and thick. Steve started in confusion. He couldn't remember having a dream. "I didn't know what to do. F.R.I.D.A.Y. said it was a… a night terror. So I waited in case you woke up. And you did."

"I'm sorry I woke you," Steve said solemnly. "I don't even remember the dream. I guess that's a good thing, though." He looked closer at Bucky, who he had always been able to read- who wore his heart on his sleeve but was too unsure to wear it proudly and always got burned for it- and struggled to place the anguish that was so evident on his face. "It's okay, Buck. I'm awake now-"

"You said my name," Bucky whispered, his eyes scrunching shut against it as if fearing the repercussions of his words. "While you were screaming. You said my name."

Steve frowned. That made sense to him. Even if he did not remember the dream, he knew he always dreamed about the same things— Bucky falling from cliffs, Bucky bleeding hot and fast from bullet wounds, Bucky wheezing on the floor of a plane, _Bucky turning to dust before him as he stands there frozen in shock_. That was just fact. Indisputable. His worst fears were all for Bucky.

"I must have dreamt of you, then," Steve said. He bit the bullet. "I always do, Buck. I always do."

Bucky's eyes shot open. His lips fell apart as if to say something, but he stayed silent. Steve let his hands find both of Bucky's, one of them enrobed in the familiar flesh (he knew the feel of it as well as he knew his own) and one in cold metal. Both Bucky.

Everything was Bucky.

Even when Bucky was gone, everything was Bucky. The salt of a beach breeze on Coney Island was Bucky; the taste of tea was Bucky at midnight, playing cards and listening to the radio; stiff woolen slacks and scraped knees were Bucky, whooping and running on a playground.

Bucky found his tongue again. "That's such a waste of time. You could be dreaming about happy things, y'know. Like… like that summer we went to the cabin— well, you fell in the pond and nearly drowned so maybe that isn't exactly happy for you-"

"You are happy things."

Bucky's eyes shut tight against the words. His hair made soft sounds where it rubbed against the pillow as he shook his head in denial.

"You are happy things, Buck. To me. And that's why I dream about you— about losing you. Losing you is losing my happiness, and that's my worst fear," Steve said.

He had always been better at saying what he felt than Bucky had. That was why Bucky simply laid there silent but staring at Steve with wide eyes and a bounding heart, squeezing at Steve's hands with tenderness warm in his very veins.

Steve's gaze was gentle, nothing like the terror-filled one Bucky had studied only ten minutes before. Relief- _that Steve was awake, Steve was okay, Steve remembers me_\- made something collapse in Bucky's chest. He curled further in upon himself, his knees knocking against Steve's as he pulled them closer to his chest, a deep breath causing his entire body to tremble as if he had been struck, like the reverberation of a gong.

"Bucky, what's wrong?" Steve quizzed, concern fizzing like sweet cream soda from his lips, one of his hands slipping from Bucky's only to settle in his curls, carding through them in a comforting pattern that brought Bucky near to tears. Bucky knew then that there was no swinging this chat back around to Steve and his nightmare. He was cornered. _Can I even lie to Steve?_

"I'm scared," Bucky admitted, a rush of chagrin hot in his face at the words. _Shameful_, he thinks of himself. _Embarrassing yourself in front of Steve like a child._

"Whatever of?" Steve asked gently, rubbing a thumb over Bucky's knuckles, his other hand continuing to fumble around in his hair. The affection was smothering to Bucky, his lungs tight at it. It had been so long since they had been close like this. Every inch of him had craved it and for the desire to be satisfied at last was both startling and euphoric. It was familiar, though distant. 70 years distant.

"A lot of things," Bucky whispered. The desperation in his tone sent goosebumps rising up along the skin of Steve's arms and legs.

"Such as?"

"Such as… spiders, and loud noises, and the chefs at hibachi restaurants," Bucky started, far too afraid to be honest.

"James Buchanan Barnes," Steve protested softly. _Full name card, he hasn't used that in a while, _Bucky mused. "While those are all valid fears (especially the hibachi chefs, the whole concept is just an excuse for gratuitous danger), I doubt any of them is particularly relevant right now."

Bucky pulled a sharp breath through his nose. "The real thing is… well, it's three things, really," he whispered, eyes still shut. "They all go together. I didn't used to be afraid of them," he added, his voice tinged with something sharp, pleading. Steve's hands found his face, his fingers knotting in the hair behind his ears and his thumbs brushing over the rough beard on his cheeks. Bucky grabbed fistfuls of Steve's shirt and clung to him like an anchor. He stayed silent for another moment, allowing himself to be washed in Steve's warm breath. "But now… I don't think I've ever been as afraid of anything else."

Steve didn't say anything, but simply waited for Bucky to continue. The seconds ticked on, but the silence was a comfortable one, the two feeling safer than they had in months. When it became clear that Bucky was not going to continue without prompting, Steve decided to continue prodding.

"Buck?"

"Mmph?"

"Do you actually want to talk about it? Because we don't have to."

Bucky shrugged. "I should. Actually, yeah. I guess I do want to. Who am I kidding, I really don't. I just-" he made a little groan of frustration, "-I'm not quite sure what to say, or how."

"Hm," Steve postulated.

"Yeah."

"Well, what about it scares you?"

_Everything. Knowing that it'll only hurt you more. Knowing that I don't deserve you. Knowing that I have ruined everything past the point of redemption. Knowing that, no matter what, I will always feel this way. _"Sounding stupid."

"You know I could never think you're stupid, not really," Steve said seriously. "I may joke about it but it could never be true."

Bucky couldn't help the smile that flicked up the corner of his lips. "I know. But this one could do a lot of damage."

"Damage… how so?"

Bucky gnawed on his lip, feeling his throat closing up against the truth, his own body creating a dam against itself. He cleared his throat. Steve continued the gentle ministrations upon his cheekbones, his fingers ghosting across Bucky's skin, feather-light and comforting. _He cares. He must. Maybe it is time. Maybe he won't be mad. If he can touch me- metal arm and all, even after everything I've done- maybe he can forgive this, too._

He took a deep breath in (let it fill his lungs to their very brim, held it for a moment, let it cleanse him, consume him), and blew it out in a stream. He let his eyes fall open and meet Steve's, which were wide with concern.

"Because I'm afraid it'll tear us apart, and I can't lose you again."

"You couldn't," Steve said immediately. "Never again. It's you and me 'till the end of the line, Bucky."

"You promise?" Bucky asked, eyes searching Steve's. The words stirred something within Bucky— the kind of something that was unlikely to settle down without a fight.

Steve showed no trepidation. "Of course."

"I love you."

Steve was silent a moment. Bucky felt his heart hammering, sure that Steve could hear it at the very least, if not feel it against his own chest. That was it. He had said it. It was gone, no longer a secret to hold tight against his chest as if he were a guardian to some ancient secret. The silence weighed upon Bucky like a blanket wrapped too tight. Instead of the relief he had hoped to feel after letting the secret out, all he felt was fear.

"Is that what you're afraid of, Buck?" Steve finally asked, his voice more gentle than Bucky had ever heard it. "The three things?"

Bucky nodded. "I, and love, and you," he whispered.

A beat of silence. Then, "clever, albeit a bit silly."

"Hey," Bucky said indignantly. "It isn't silly. It's not a funny sort of secret. I'm a murderer, Steve," he said, his voice becoming desperate. "I killed people. I shouldn't allow myself to love anyone or anything, I shouldn't. I don't deserve it and never will again," he concluded, his voice fragile but grave.

"I wish I could pretend you didn't say that. I wish you didn't believe it, but you do believe it so I'm going to spend the rest of time trying really hard to convince you of how _wrong_ you are," Steve whispered, an earnest warmth flowing into his voice as he spoke. "Buck, you know none of that is your fault-"

"But I still did it."

"No, you didn't. It was Hydra, the Winter Soldier. Not you. Never you. You wouldn't, Buck. You know why?" Steve didn't give Bucky the opportunity to answer before plowing on. "Because you are good inside. I know it. The whole team knows it. Gosh, I don't think Peter came around to anyone quite as quickly as he did to you— except maybe Tony," he added, slightly bemused. "And you know what that kid is like. Do you really think Peter would trust you- care for you- like he does if you weren't good inside? And do you really think _I _would care for you like I do if you weren't good inside?"

"I don't know," he murmured. "I don't know anything anymore."

"It's a good thing I do, then," Steve said with determination. "Until you feel like you know things again, you can just ask me. I know everything," he added, a bit of humor saturating his voice. He poked Bucky's stomach playfully, relishing in the small snort of laughter Bucky released as he did. They met eyes once more, both grinning lightly with the heat of a flush in their cheeks, the nightmare of earlier miles and miles away from their minds.

"Hey," Steve said offhandedly.

"Hmph?"

"I love you."

Bucky felt his heart stutter. "You don't have to just say that to make me feel better, you know."

"That's not why I said it. And I do know. I know everything, remember?"

"I guess so," Bucky whispered, his gaze reverent where it held onto Steve. "I love you," Bucky said then, and it was light and sweet as the soughing of a breezy summer day. "I love you, God, I love you," the words growing heavier with meaning and beginning to run together clumsily. Bucky felt a fierce sort of passion bubbling in his chest and he freed it by repeating the words. "I love you, I love you, I- mph."

Steve cut him off with a kiss. It was a bit awkward and clunky, their knees pressing together and their stubble scratching against each other's chins, but it was perfect.

Yes, tonight was different. The universe itself had willed it to be. _And every night from now on will be different, too_, Bucky thought to himself as he smiled against Steve's lips. He mumbled the words one last time, and when Steve returned them, he felt peace.


End file.
